The Junk Drawer

No doubt some of you know what the acronym TL;DR stands for. If you don’t, it’s “too long; didn’t read.”

TL;DR is often used in response to a very long post somewhere on the Internet that people feel was too long to read and just skipped it.

Sometimes a writer will add TL;DR to the end of their post and give a short summary for their long-windedness for the benefit of lazy people.

I’m one of those lazy people. And my acronym lately is TL;DG (too lazy; didn’t Google), for today I posted a comment on a friend’s Facebook status that I was surprised I hadn’t heard about a streaming webcam fixed on the pipe from where smoke will bellow after a pope is either decided or not.

I ask, exactly how lazy do you have to be to not Google something? I mean, in the time it took for me to tell my friend that I didn’t think there was a pope smoke cam, I could have actually Googled whether or not there was one.

Think back to pre-Internet days. To learn anything at all about the pope election process, I’d have had to walk to a library. We were encyclopedia-free in my house, so finding facts meant actually putting a coat on and walking two blocks to Mary Meuser Memorial Library, where I did all my school work that involved research.

Now we have Google at our fingertips and somehow I think it’s still too much work to move my cursor all the way up to the search box, type “pope streaming cam,” tap Enter and get an answer instantly.

I mean, really. Lazy is as lazy whines about doing.

Now if you’ll excuse me, typing this post nearly killed me. I have to go lie down.

Oh, and if you’re curious, yes, there is a streaming pope pipe cam here. Get it while it’s hot!

It is possible to make a quick stop at the grocery store on a full bladder, for just a few things, but pick up more things than you planned and all heavier than you should carry on one arm, stacked precariously, and then run into a woman you used to work with thirteen years ago, and you really did want to see her, and then stand in the middle of an aisle wearing a winter coat and gloves, and catch up on those last thirteen years for half an hour, on a full bladder (in case you forgot), and the items you’ve been holding on your arm like a Jenga game now feel like they weigh 58 pounds and you’re trying to think of how not to pass out because oh my God you’re wearing a parka, not pee in your pants because full bladder, politely end the conversation, say your goodbyes, give a hug, and not drop the Jenga tower all over the floor.

Yeah. It can be done. But I don’t recommend it.

The other day I was working on a PC problem in a client’s office. The client allowed me access while he wasn’t there, and also offered me any amount of Hershey Kisses he leaves in a giant cookie jar on his desk.

While working on the problem, I called a colleague to toss around some ideas about how to fix it. I told her about the client offering me chocolate from the cookie jar.

The jar is enormous. Really, like, I don’t know where you’d even buy one that big.

To give her an idea of how big it was, I tried to think of a way to estimate its size.

I did not say it was about a foot and a half tall and a foot wide.

I did not say that it was about three times the size of an average cookie jar.

I did not say that it probably weighed 20 pounds, even without any chocolate in it.

What I did say was that you could fit a severed head in it perfectly and put the lid back on securely.

I watch a lot of true crime TV shows.

So there you go. A severed head-sized amount of chocolate, all for the taking. I took about an ear’s worth.

Yesterday I visited my Mom at her nursing home. When I left, I took her laundry so I could wash it at my house and take it back this morning.

Laundry is a no-brainer. Yesterday I did it with truly no brain at all and we’ll see why.

When I sensed Mom’s wash was done, I opened the lid and moved everything to the dryer. But it felt funny, a little slippery. A little off.

All sorts of warning sirens went off in my head, but I ignored every last one of them and put the load in the dryer anyway. Then I immediately put my own laundry in the washer, poured in some liquid detergent, closed the lid, pressed the start button and nothing happened.

Why? Because evidently Mom’s cycle hadn’t finished yet. The knob was still on “Rinse.” Dumbass.

This is an issue now, of course, because I realize my mother’s laundry never got rinsed or spun, and now it’s in the dryer, tumbling in its own soapy residue. Aaaaand, now my own laundry is sitting in the washer soaked with detergent. 

Here’s where you would think I’d just wash my own load since it’s already in there. But no. I inexplicably chose to remove it – dripping with detergent – and dump it in an oozy pile on the floor and put Mom’s back in for a second cycle.

A second cycle because my washing machine is harder to understand than the Higgs boson particle. I cannot get it restarted where it left off. I can only start it all over again.

Whatever. Second cycle. Mom’s clothes are gonna be super clean now.

Another half an hour later, hers is done. My drippy load goes in. Yea! We’re making progress.

Except.

When Mom’s clothes are finished in the dryer and I start unloading, that’s when I hear it.

Clink.

Nothing fills me with dread more than having to sew and now I have to because a button has fallen off one of my Mom’s blouses.

Yes, I know it’s just a button, but sewing for me might as well be open heart surgery. I’ll strain my back and neck from hunching over so long and there will likely be blood.

Swear to God, my first thought was to somehow staple the button back on. Shouldn’t there be a device for that? If there is, I don’t have one, and so begins the blind-as-a-bat, gorilla fingers part of the show.

I assemble my little sewing kit, the pathetic kind you get at a dollar store, on the kitchen counter.

My cat Lucky catches wind of this, sees all the thread and he’s like “Awesome! I’m getting string? Are we having a string party?”

No, we are not having a string party, now GET DOWN! He does not get down; instead, he starts purring because he’s thinking the circus came to town and this is going to be fun.

It is not fun. There’s no way in hell I’m threading this needle without the help of that wiry diamond-shaped thingamabob you put through the eye of the needle, and then put the thread through that.

This goes fairly well, except now Lucky’s in bat-the-string mode and so I have to move the operation to the dimly-lit laundry room, which is so helpful for open heart, you know.

There, I begin a process whereby I totally miss threading around the bracket thingy on the back of the button and instead do nothing but make holes in the blouse as the button eludes me and falls off to the side. Bloop.

Sew, sew, sew. Bloop.

I stab myself several times. I curse a little.

This process goes on with enough successes that I finally have the button attached, but with a giant blob of unnecessary thread on the other side of the button.

But you know what? It’s lined up perfectly and fits through the button hole!

I’m ecstatic that I’ve finally completed this weekend laundry project, hang the blouse on a hanger, button the top button and marvel at my achievement.

Ahhh, so pretty! So functional! A masterpiece, really.

And then.

Clink.

A second button falls off and I consider my choices:

1. Kill myself. 2. Realize that it’s the bottommost button on the blouse, and does my mother really need that one?  3. Throw the blouse away and buy a new one.

Reluctantly, I get crackin’ on the second button, going through all the same traumas as the first. Swearing, stabbing and sulking until we achieve sewn-on, locked-down buttony goodness.

I hope my sisters are reading this. Flip a coin, ladies. One of you is getting Mom’s laundry next week.

I wouldn’t say I’m textbook OCD, just some little quirks here and there. For instance, I have never pressed the trip counter button in my car since I bought it 13 years ago.

I just can’t reset the mileage. You would think someone with OCD tendencies would do something like reset it to a row of pretty little zeroes each time she gets out of the car. But you’d be wrong.

Knowing I’ve never pressed it in all this time means I can never press it ever, ever, ever. You know?

And then there’s this.

I’ve been refilling the same soap dispenser for over 10 years. I can’t replace it. Why?

Not because I’m an earth-loving environmentalist (although consider how much plastic I’ve saved by not buying new bottles. Go me!).

It’s because I’ve had it for over 10 years. That’s all. It’s like a contest with myself to see how long I can keep it going. And now I can never part with it.

And my husband better not toss it just to get a rise out of me because, if he does, he’s going to be left with the kind of wife who whines and cries every time she washes her hands with an imposter soap dispenser.

Besides, two could play that game. Seems my husband has a little OCD himself.

See how perfectly he stacks forks in the  silverware tray?

I oblige his OCD by stacking them neatly when I put dishes away, even though I don’t care if they’re all askew.

But get rid of my soap dispenser and just see how organized I keep them. Just see. [insert maniacal laughter here].